


Radio Waves (Or, Phil Coulson Doesn't Like His Life Narrated)

by pathera



Series: Three SHIELD Agents, a Desert Town, and Thirty-Two Averted Apocalypses [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Clint loves it, Crack, Episode: e045 A Story About Them, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Night Vale Needs Supervision, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Phil hates Night Vale, Run-On Sentences, Shenanigans in Night Vale, Timeline What Timeline, or at least probably crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:37:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathera/pseuds/pathera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I hate Night Vale,” Phil says with a sigh, in the kind of voice that verbally suggests the frustrated pinching of the bridge of one’s nose. Or, at least, that’s how the voice on the radio describes it just a second later. </p><p>In which Phil and Clint are on assignment in Night Vale, the local radio station has taken to narrating their every movement, Phil hates Night Vale as much as Clint loves it, and they manage to have a moment in spite of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Radio Waves (Or, Phil Coulson Doesn't Like His Life Narrated)

**Author's Note:**

> So, as I was listening to A Story About Them I kept picturing Coulson as the Man Who is Not Tall and Clint as the Man Who is Not Short, and then Natasha as the supervisor, and it snowballed from there. I'm not quite sure how, but it did, and here we have this. As far as a timeline goes, just don't look too closely at it, this is set just before Orange Grove but has them there for Street Cleaning Day which was way earlier and that's probably too much time, and for all I know I referenced things that actually happen after Orange Grove. It's Night Vale, just roll with it. At a guess for MCU I'd put it somewhere around or just before IM3, and Agents of SHIELD, what Agents of SHIELD? 
> 
> There shouldn't be any warnings needed, but if you find one absolutely let me know! And I apologize profusely for the run-on sentences.

Night Vale is….

Well, Night Vale is the ellipses at the end of a sentence. Night Vale is the kitchen sink of the world, Night Vale is unpredictable and weird and unsettling, Night Vale is the bane of every SHIELD agent with clearance over level four, because Night Vale needs monitoring and sooner or later everyone has to put in their time.

Phil Coulson did his time in Night Vale. It was his first assignment after he was promoted up; it was three _long_ months, high summer in the desert, four separate invasions of tentacled monsters, a volcano under city hall, the suspension of the laws of physics not just once but twice, and Phil saw more action and bloodshed in those three months than the rest of his SHIELD career combined. He still has nightmares about the librarians.

The point is, Phil _did_ his time, he has one of the highest clearance levels, he was stabbed through the chest by a Norse god, and there is _no_ reason why he should be sitting in a car in the desert watching the flickering of lights that he has no explanation for. He has expressed this sentiment at length to Fury, both when he was given the assignment and in the regular check-ins since, and he has expressed it both verbally and non-verbally.

Fury, in response, has said: _the desert air will do you good, Phil, get you back on your feet_ and _we need Barton and Romanov somewhere out of the way until this media circus dies down_ and _it’s quiet out there, you won’t get in any trouble_ and _someone has to do it._ Most of these are lies. Because Fury, as always, is a liar. Night Vale isn’t quiet, Night Vale has _never_ been quiet, there is a five-headed dragon running for mayor, there is an invasion by a miniature underground society, there is a glow cloud on the school board, and Strexcorp is going to be a problem, Strexcorp is going to be a big fucking problem, because if they weren’t content with Desert Bluffs they won’t be content with Night Vale either, and when they spill over past the boundary into the rest of the world, well, they are going to end up on Phil’s desk, he _knows_ it.

“I hate Night Vale,” Phil says with a sigh, in the kind of voice that verbally suggests the frustrated pinching of the bridge of one’s nose. Or, at least, that’s how the voice on the radio describes it just a second later. He started narrating them about fifteen minutes ago. It’s not the first time; Phil just kind of ignores it now. Night Vale is law unto itself; it’s easiest to just not ask.

The corner of Clint’s mouth ticks up. “No you don’t,” he says, and the voice on the radio confirms it, much to Phil’s chagrin. He considers arguing it, just to be contrary, because that’s what Night Vale does to him, it makes him contrary, the descending chill of night makes the scars (if they can even be called that yet, still fresh enough to pull when he moves wrong) on his chest ache, the lights in the sky pulse like they’re alive and they could be, Phil has seen some weird shit in this damn town. He decides against it in the end, just leans back against his seat with a faint sigh, and Clint looks at him fondly from the corner of his eye, although he tries to pretend as if he isn’t.

“Thanks for that, Cecil,” Clint says to the radio as it narrates his affectionate little side-glance. He sounds amused though. Clint _loves_ Night Vale; he is endlessly entertained and patient and there is nothing that can shake him here. The laws of gravity suspend and he just swims gleefully through the air. He plasters campaign posters for the Faceless Old Woman Who Lives In Your Home on the walls of the tiny trailer that they call home, citing his opinion that Hiram McDaniels is sketchy and disregarding the basic fact of a _faceless_ old woman who apparently lives unseen in people’s homes. Potentially in _their_ home, Phil isn’t quite clear on the logistics. On Street Cleaning Day—and _yes_ , it does deserve the capital letters—Natasha and Phil had the sense to stay inside and fortify their defenses, but Clint went out, came back as dusk was falling, tired and covered in blood but mostly unharmed and grinning like a psychopath.

If Phil _doesn’t_ hate Night Vale, that is probably why. The town annoys him the way nothing else can, has very little effect on Natasha—except for the Man in the Tan Jacket, _nothing_ annoys Natasha more than someone she cannot pin down, much less one that she cannot even remember with any clarity—but out here Clint could be called something close to content. Out here, the constant tension he has carried for months finally starts to bleed out of his body. He isn’t so far away and locked inside his own head, he doesn’t freeze with guilt every time Phil winces or takes his shirt off, he doesn’t wake every night with his teeth locked around the word _loki_. Out here, New York is a world away.

“You’re staring,” Clint says, the radio murmuring the same words right below his. He is smiling, soft and a little smug, and his eyes are the right shade of blue.

 _The man who is not tall leans forwards without deciding to,_ the voice on the radio says, _and before he has a chance to hesitate the man who is not short meets him in the middle_. Phil stops listening, because he is busy doing instead, because Clint’s mouth is sweet and strong and his fingers are curling into the front of his jacket, pulling him closer, the windows are down and the air is cold and smells faintly like oranges, that probably means there’s going to be another near apocalypse because what _doesn’t_ mean that in this town? And Phil doesn’t care about any of it because Clint is warm and here and they aren’t under attack by anything at the moment.

Phil has to break off first, something about being stabbed in the chest and having a slightly diminished lung capacity, but Clint doesn’t pull back, is close enough that Phil can feel the shape of his smile pressed against his cheek, and then Clint snorts, starts to laugh. “Talk about kissing and telling,” he says, and the goddamn voice on the radio is still talking, isn’t he, yes, what the fuck is he saying?

_This is not a moment that will change the world. But it is, perhaps, a moment that creates the world. We are all insignificant beings, tiny, fragile creatures going about our days, living our lives, and it is moments like this one, where the man who is not short and the man who is not tall sit together in their car, looking only at each other while the rest of the world ticks on, it is these moments that layer together to create the world we know. Somewhere, the redheaded woman is listening to the voice on the radio talk about two men she knows as she sharpens a knife, and she is smirking, and she will laugh at them when she next sees them. The man who is not short is cringing and the man who is not tall is closing his eyes in exasperation, and they are all listening to a voice on the radio, they are all living their moments. We are **all** moments, fleeting, moving, changing. Now, we spin on to the next. Stay tuned for three hours of a clock ticking in an empty room. This moment passes, and we become a new one. Good night, Night Vale. _

The ticking of the clock is loud and echoing in the car, until Clint reaches over and flips the radio off. “So, uh, I guess we’re a moment?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “We’re never gonna hear the end of this from Tasha.”

Phil shakes his head and reaches for him. “I hate this fucking town.”

Clint laughs until Phil shuts up him, and outside the lights in the sky flicker. A helicopter flies towards the edge of town, the smell of oranges grows thicker in the air, and somewhere Natasha is sending an encrypted message to the director of a clandestine pseudo-military organization that says _secondary mission objective reached_. The voice on the radio is heading home to watch a documentary on algae growth with a perfect-haired scientist and on the radio a clock is ticking and one moment fades into another. All is peaceful and quiet, or at least contained and not extraordinarily loud. For now.

So good night, Night Vale.


End file.
